


Before it Breaks

by KatsatheGraceling



Series: Long Bondlock Prompt Fills [9]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bondlock, Don't let me tag, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt!Q, M/M, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Q is a Holmes, Read end notes for more warnings, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsatheGraceling/pseuds/KatsatheGraceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: I have a prompt for you: Bond (Ace/GrAce/Straight) is given the mission to seduce a very MALE college student (Q) who has been making trouble for MI6 and dead set against joining. Downtime, top secret, paper only mission. A few years later, Q finds out that their relationship was/is (just) a mission... happy or sad ending up to you.</p><p>Excerpt: <i>Everything revolved around the boy in the kitchen; every thought, every decision. Everything Bond said or did had to be carefully filtered and thought through; a game of chess that he never wanted to play in the first place. His entire routine had been shifted, and he hated it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Before it Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> I'm afraid while transferring my works from a story to a series, I lost the name of the prompter. If you're reading this, please claim your wonderful prompt! I’m so sorry this took me as long as it did. Hope this was worth the wait!
> 
> Okay. Whelp. This one was hard for me to write guys. It was my first go at angst, and I have no idea if it even worked. Sorry this took so long (I’m like a broken record).  
> Title from Brandi Carlile.
> 
> READ END NOTES FOR MORE SPECIFIC WARNINGS/TAGS

__**Say it ain’t so, say I'm happy again  
** Say it's over, say I'm dreaming,  
Say I'm better than you left me  
Say you're sorry, I can take it. 

_Present day._

The alarm was shrill in Bond’s ear. He had been awake for exactly thirty-two minutes before it had sounded, but stayed still in bed, one arm looped around a thin waist. Owner of said waist was currently wrapped around Bond like an octopus, snoring gently into the crook of his neck.

At the sound of the alarm, the body next to him gave a small jerk, huffing slightly. He tightened his hold on Bond for a moment, before reaching around to fumble for the alarm. 

Bond’s bedmate smacked his lips sleepily and clicked on the bedside lamp. Bond made sure to close his eyes just before it came on, squinting and blinking blearily as if he had just woken up. He opened his eyes to find a pale face smiling peacefully at him, green eyes shining in the dim light. 

“Good morning,” Bond croaked, voice hoarse.

Quentin Holmes smiled at him, snaking a hand behind Bond’s head and playing with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Good morning, love,” he whispered. 

Bond gave him a small smile and reached over to snatch Quentin’s glasses off the bedside table. Quentin grinned in thanks, slipping the dark-rimmed glasses on. The younger man leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Bond’s lips. Keeping a smile on his face, Bond resisted the urge to swipe the back of his hand across his mouth.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said instead, swiping an errant dark curl out of Quentin’s eyes. “Care to join me?”

“Tempting,” Quentin said, pouting slightly. “But I think I’ll go make us breakfast.”

Bond teased, smiling, “If you insist.” 

After one last kiss, Quentin rolled out of bed, padding his way to the kitchen. Bond waited until the younger boy was out of the room before letting the smile drop from his face. He blinked the sleep from his eyes. With a sigh, he heaved himself up and crossed to the bathroom. 

As he undressed, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He stared at it; a completely different man stared back at him. His hair had grown out some, making it slightly longer than his normal military cut. The decline in missions over the years had made his midsection and muscular shoulders slightly less defined; he made a mental note to visit the training room a MI6 more often. _Maybe he could tell Quentin he got a gym membership…_

He scowled at his train of thought. Everything revolved around the boy in the kitchen; every thought, every decision. Everything Bond said or did had to be carefully filtered and thought through; a game of chess that he never wanted to play in the first place. His entire routine had been shifted, and he hated it.

Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, Bond stepped into the shower. There was no use bemoaning the choice now, not when he was in this deep.

Bond showered quickly and efficiently, studiously ignoring the signs of their shared life. The array of mixed shampoos and soaps, the pair of razors, the two toothbrushes. He couldn’t escape it. Nothing was completely his own anymore.

He stepped out (making sure to grab the towel on the _left,_ not the _right_ —Quentin hated it when he found his towel already wet), and wrapped it around his waist, dressing quickly and following the smell of food to the kitchen.

Quentin stood in his pants and one of Bond’s much larger t-shirts, dancing in front of the stove. The boy was humming to himself, in the process of flipping a fried egg. He caught sight of Bond in the corner of his eye and a smile spread over his face, turning and humming louder, reaching his hand out as if to ask Bond dance. Bond chuckled, acting amused at his antics, and accepted the hand. They stepped closer, Bond’s hand settling over Quentin’s smaller hip, and swayed to the music. Quentin’s humming finally came to an end, and the pair slowed. They both grinned, and Bond knew his grin wouldn’t look as fake as it felt.

“And what was that you were serenading me with?” Bond asked. He knew the answer, of course, but it made Quentin happy when he thought he was broadening Bond’s knowledge of classical music.

“Partita Number One in B minor,” the brunet announced, spinning back to the stove and taking off the bacon that had been sizzling. “By Johann Sebastian Bach.”

“Sounds nice,” Bond said. “Now, which one was Bach again?”

Quentin snorted, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.” He placed a plate of food on the table. “Eat up.”

Bond sat, while Quentin continued to bustle around the kitchen, making tea for the two of them. A cup was placed in front of Bond, and a moment later Quentin sat at the table as well. Bond eyed the empty place in front of him. “Not hungry this morning, love?” 

Quentin shook his head. “I’ll eat something later.”

And then it was all horribly domestic, how Bond read the newspaper and Quentin sat with his laptop. They sat in companionable silence, both lost in their own worlds yet sharing this together. The scene it created was one Bond never thought he’d partake in—one he knew he certainly didn’t fit into.

But Quentin was happy and that was what mattered. As long as the young hacker was complacent and not waging World War Three with his laptop, Bond was succeeding in his mission.

Time passed, silence only interrupted by the soft chinks of silverware and clicks of Quentin’s keyboard. The younger boy gave a start when he glanced at the clock. “Oh, honey,” he said, raising his eyes to meet his boyfriend’s. “The time. You’re going to be late.”

Bond glanced at the clock, noting that it was past time for him to go to ‘work’. “Thank you, dear.” 

He stood, Quentin taking his plate for him. Bond slid into his coat, dreading another day of sitting behind a desk in MI6. He made a move to walk out the door, when Quentin laid a hand on his arm. 

“Here,” the brunet smiled, “let me fix that for you.” Quentin reached up to fix Bond’s tie, and Bond had to squash the instinct to keep foreign hands away from his neck. Quentin’s eyes lingered on his neck, eyes sappy. Tie fixed, Q went on his toes to press a kiss to Bond’s lips. 

Bond plastered a soft smile on his face. “Goodbye, Quentin.”

Quentin grinned back at him, “Have a nice day, Jamie.”

Bond turned and shut the door, waiting until it was completely closed to grimace at the name.

This was his life now.

* * *

_Three years, two months ago._

The manilla folder that slid across the desk was surprisingly thin. Bond threw M a suspicious glance, taking the file in hand. The picture that greeted him was of a boy—looking no older than a Uni student—with piercing green eyes and a mop of dark messy hair.

“Who’s this?” Bond asked.

“Quentin Sherrinford Holmes,” M said. "Notorious hacker. He goes by the alias 'Q'."

Bond smirked at the irony. "And you want me to... what? Recruit him?"

"I'm afraid not. Quentin has been causing quite a few problems for us recently. We have tried offering him a _job,"_ the inflection in her voice gave away that they had offered him the job more than once, "but he appears to be set against joining. And, due to his connections with certain members in politics, we can't simply force him in."

Bond's lips thinned. "So I'm to kill him."

M was silent. She slowly placed her hand over the file. "This," she said, patting the cardstock, "is your priority for the foreseeable future. You are to get close to him.” Bond raised an eyebrow. "As far as we know, Quentin is a threat. I need you to keep an eye on him."

"Become his friend?"

"Become whatever it takes. This mission will have to be completely on paper. Quentin can easily access our files; we can't risk him finding out. This assignment will take precedence over everything from now on. You will be deleted from MI6 history. Q-Branch will make you a believable electronic trail and background story."

Bond couldn't help but to feel angry at the turn of events. Why did he have to play babysitter? Surely whatever annoyance this hacker may be, he didn't warrant a Double-O agent to look after him. "And am I not allowed any other missions in the meantime?"

"You'll still go on a few, of course. You'd kill Quentin yourself if I banned you from all assignments. They just won't be quite the caliber that you're used to. I'll say it again; making sure Quentin does not commit treason is your number one priority."

"Why me?"

M's eyes narrowed at him questioning her, but she still answered, "You have a reputation for being..." she trailed off, a smile hinting at her lips, "how should I say, persuasive."

"I'm to seduce him?" Bond deadpanned. "You want me to date a possible terrorist?"

M's eyes were cold. "You've done worse with actual terrorists."

Bond's eyes narrowed into slits. 

M continued, "Report to Q-Branch tomorrow morning for more debriefing. Am I understood?"

Jaw clenched, he answered, "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

_Present day._

Bond pulled the car into the parking garage, the security guard nodding to him as he drove by. The entire garage and connected building was a farce, a front connected through underground tunnels to the main MI6 branch. If someone were to walk into the building, they would be greeted by a cheerful receptionist and asked if they would like to speak to a representative about international sales.

Carrying his briefcase—which was equipped with two hidden knives and a small pistol—Bond strode into the building, greeting the receptionist with a smile. He took the staircase down to the tunnels, and from there is was only a five minute walk to MI6. There he would spend the rest of his day bothering M, pestering Eve, or down in the range to keep his shooting skills from dropping. Occasionally, he would pass the time by scaring boffins and interns in the rec room. Assignments were few and far between, and always disguised as a needed business trip. If it was a supposed seminar or convention Bond was going to, Q-Branch would even print some notes for him to place in his pockets and briefcase, so if Quentin stumbled upon them it would only help Bond’s cover story.

MI6 was nothing if not thorough. It was really no surprise that they could lead on a genius who couldn’t see the lie in front of his own face.

He rapped on Eve’s door, not waiting for a response before he entered. She didn’t pause from her conversation on her phone, rolling her eyes at his antics. Bond sat in the chair across from her desk, propping his feet up next to the open file. The death glare she gave him was impressive, but Bond only smirked and pointedly kept his feet where they were.

He waited (almost) patiently as she finished her call, not flinching as she slammed the phone down.

She opened her mouth to say something—an insult, most likely—when she suddenly stopped. Her eyes zeroed in on where his shirt was unbuttoned over his collar, a mischievous smile sliding on to her face. “Is that why you were late?” she asked, eyes dancing.

Confused, Bond glanced down—only to find a dark hickey staring back up at him. 

“How is lover-boy?” Eve asked wickedly.

Bond felt his cheeks heat—not with embarrassment, but with anger. What did Quentin think he was doing, marking Bond’s body in such a way? The bruise would take at least a few days to go away, and M would surely laugh if she saw it. Jaw clenched, Bond reached up to button his shirt up all the way. No wonder Quentin had seemed so pleased with himself when he did Bond’s tie this morning.

Bond made a mental note to not zone out as much when Quentin was kissing him. He couldn’t let this happen again.

“James?” Eve asked. Her brows were pulled together, confused as to why Bond hadn’t answered her.

Bond tempered his rage, grunting out, “Fine, good. He’s good.”

He hated this, too. That he had to lie to his friends as well. Eve thought, just as everyone else did, that Bond was hopelessly in love with his boyfriend. 

“You seem distracted. Are you alright, James?”

Bond shrugged.

Eve suddenly gasped, “Oh my God! You’re going to pop the question, aren’t you? Is that why you’re acting so off?” She accused, “You’re _nervous!_ ”

Bond felt his anger for Quentin rising more than normal—as it always did when he was forced to lie to Moneypenny. “Yes,” he gritted out. “I was thinking— _thinking,_ ” he stressed at her overexcited look. “About picking out a ring. I just want to get this right, you know?”

Eve clasped her hands over her mouth, eyes shining. “Oh, James.” 

Eve had been rooting for Quentin and James since the beginning, unaware that everything was a farce. She had given him tips and ideas on how to ‘woo’ Quentin, unknowingly helping Bond in his mission. Bond wasn’t quite sure how she’d react when she found out that it wasn’t real.

“Enough of the sap,” he commanded, but Eve stood to round the deck and envelope him in a hug.

“I’m so happy for you,” she whispered in his ear, and Bond resisted wincing.

Bond was surely going to burn in the lowest circle of hell for this. “Thank you.”

* * *

_Three years ago._

Quentin sat in his normal corner of the small café, fingers calm and resting on the familiar keyboard. This was his favourite place to come and unwind when his flat was getting stuffy; not too crowded and excellent tea. The wifi connection was easy enough to secure, and Quentin often stayed here, tucked away in his corner for hours on end.

He checked his inbox, frowning at an email from Sherlock. Why on Earth did the man want to know if a string of numbers could serve as a universal key? The idea was ludicrous, and Q told him that whoever gave him that idea was most likely insane. 

The response he got was almost immediate, the bell over the door chiming simultaneously. _You have no idea._

Quentin’s eyes flicked up and did a double take as a tall man stepped into the small coffee shop, shivering slightly at the nipping air outside. He had broad shoulders and sandy blond hair, cropped short. Quentin went through his mental log of all the regulars at the secluded shop, drawing a blank on the identity of the newcomer. The man looked around curiously, taking in his surroundings, reinforcing Quentin’s prior thought that the man had never been here before.

For a brief moment, his eyes locked on Quentin’s, and the brunet was surprised at the intense blue he saw there. But the look was soon over, just a fleeting glance, and the man’s eyes focused on the girl behind the counter. He sauntered over, voice low as he ordered an espresso. Quentin knew he was staring for too long, but couldn’t help it. The man was obviously in shape, suit tailored to fit him perfectly. The briefcase was top brand, as were his shoes. Quentin didn’t focus his attentions on learning how to read people like Mycroft and Sherlock did, but this quick mind couldn’t help but to pick up on a few things.

As if feeling Quentin’s eyes on him, the man glanced over again, catching Quentin staring. Quentin jerked his eyes back to his laptop—which had fallen asleep, the traitor—and tried to ward away the hot blood pooled in his cheeks. Quentin typed halfheartedly on the keyboard, mortified.

He had just finished hacking into Mycroft’s most recent files, polishing off his blueberry muffin, when a figure suddenly appeared next to his table. Cheeks chipmunked out with berry goodness, Quentin looked up to see Adonis himself smiling down at him. He was pretty sure he felt a few crumbs drop. 

The man gestured toward the empty booth across from Quentin, lips twitching. “Is this seat spoken for?”

Quentin took an unnecessary glance around the deserted café—and all of the fourteen other empty tables—and then looked back into pale blue eyes questioningly.

At his look, the man shrugged. “I like to conserve space.”

Quentin hoped his swallow wasn’t as loud as it seemed. He nodded, too tongue tied for words, and swept his things over to his side of the table.

The man sat down, all grace and solid muscle, grinning at Quentin. He held his— _strongtannedperfect_ —hand out across the table. “Bourne,” he said. “Jamie Bourne.”

“Q,” Quentin greeted, shaking his hand. They were large and strong, calloused.

The man cocked an eyebrow. “Surely that isn’t your real name.”

“No,” Quentin agreed. “But it’s the nickname I prefer.”

Lynda, the sweet woman who ran the shop, walked over to hand Jamie his drink. She threw a wink at Quentin, who blushed.

The Adonis—Jamie—smirked, and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to earn the knowledge of your real name, won’t I?”

Quentin flushed. No one had ever taken an interest in his real name so quickly, simply accepting the nickname. Jamie’s voice promised a challenge. Quentin found himself immediately hoping that he would be seeing more of Jamie in the future.

* * *

_Present day._

Quentin sat at home, hands flying across the keyboard. He was finishing up a project for a company in Finland that would pay him enough to keep him and Jamie very comfortable for a long time. 

And it better, Quentin thought angrily, thinking of the insane demands that the owner of the business had made. Who in their right mind still used scrolling marquees?

The long time he had spent on this project had seriously diminished his time with Jamie. Quentin frowned, thinking of all the times in the past few weeks when Quentin had to excuse himself to work on this project. He thought of the distance that had grown between him and his partner. Jamie always said that he didn’t mind Quentin’s work—he knew that he was away just as often on a work-related trip. 

But still, Quentin felt as if he should do something for Jamie, something to celebrate that he had finished a project. Quentin pursed his lips. Their anniversary was in a few days; perhaps Quentin could surprise him then. Both Quentin and Jamie had marked July 27th on their calendar as the day they met, and always did a little something to celebrate.

A smile crossed Quentin’s lips. He knew exactly what he would do.  
_Three years ago._

The next time Quentin saw Jamie at the small coffee shop, he agreed to let the man buy him his tea. 

The time after that, Quentin said yes to lunch.

And after that, dinner.

All the while Jamie dutifully called him ‘Q’, never pestering him for his real name. The man was kind, full of smiles and laughs. He held the door open and always tried to pay—not that Quentin would let him, but the sentiment was still there. He was a perfect gentleman.

It wasn’t until that dinner that when Jamie smiled and greeted him with, “Q,” that the brunet replied shyly with, “Quentin.”

The blinding smile that Jamie gave him was completely worth it.

And Quentin had researched Jamie, of course he had. The man had an above average credit score, a few parking tickets, and was still making payments on his car. A perfectly average education for this profession—which he told Quentin on their second date was international sales.

Mycroft even looked into him, the meddling shit. Quentin had to beg and plead—and promise to accompany Mummy to the opera—before Mycroft relented and agreed to not kidnap Jamie and put the fear of God into him. Even Sherlock promised to keep out of it, after seeing how happy Quentin was with Jamie.

Quentin had been cautious with Jamie at first, unashamedly following him on the CCTV. He needed to make sure that the man wasn’t going back to report to Mycroft or one of his cronies (or Mummy). He couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad when he placed a tracker on Jamie’s mobile after the man had fallen asleep one night.

Their fourth date was spent at the movies, their fifth was a picnic at the park. Quentin convinced Jamie to do something a little less generic for their sixth, and they went to Comic Con. And though he could tell Jamie hated it immensely, the man put on a brave face and pretended to be interested for Quentin. It made Quentin fall just a little bit harder.

Quentin finally stopped counting their dates after the seventeenth. He had always made a habit of counting the number of dates he and a bloke went on, almost waiting for them to run away screaming. Most were normally gone by number eight. 

Quentin couldn’t believe that someone like Jamie would be interested in a gangly guy with glasses—who looked like he could still be in college. Quentin knew he wasn’t much of a catch—he couldn’t see two feet in front of him without his glasses, and was clumsy with or without them. He didn’t eat enough and his hands were calloused and scarred with electrical burns. Yet, when Jamie saw these, he gently brought Quentin’s hand to his lips and kissed each scar. He told Quentin it would take a lot more than that to get him running.

And, true to his word, Jamie didn’t go running when he saw Quentin’s mass amount of screens and wires and the three keyboards. He still didn’t try to climb out of the window when Quentin showed him his entire bookcase of Star Wars collectables (although Quentin waited another month and a half to show him the boxes full of Star Trek, Doctor Who, and Marvel items).

Jamie’s flat was slightly larger than Quentin’s, and four months after they had been together, Jamie cleared out a space in his dresser for Quentin’s clothes when he spent the night. Over the next three months, the majority of Quentin’s things had found their way to Jamie’s flat. At month eight, Jamie simply just asked Quentin if he wanted to move in.

Their first Christmas together was spent snuggling in front of Jamie’s fireplace, and their first Valentine’s Day included Jamie giving Quentin a bear nearly his size. 

Jamie often went on business trips, usually once every other month or so. Many times he would come home looking tired and haggard, collapsing into bed with only a nod to his boyfriend. And Quentin would always climb in after him, giving the blond a long massage and working out the knots that had formed over the last couple of days. Once, Quentin found a large bruise on Jamie’s side, and he immediately woke Jamie up, startled. The man mumbled out, “Man hit me with the door. Accident.” Quentin tried to take Jamie’s pulse to see if the man was lying, but his heartbeat was so slow from being nearly asleep that Quentin couldn’t detect a lie.

Quentin and Jamie were often tip-toeing around each other for a day or so after Jamie’s trips, as Jamie always had time off to recuperate. Jamie was often irritable, snapping at Q for the little things. Quentin simply took it all in stride, knowing it would eventually end with Jamie apologizing and them making up.

Their biggest fight came after Jamie’s longest trip away. They had been together for about a year and a half when Jamie came home from a month long trip in Montenegro looking awful, smelling faintly of river water. Jamie avoided Quentin’s ‘Welcome Home’ kiss, and physically pushed Quentin away when he tried to rub Jamie’s back. Quentin masked his hurt, simply leaving a glass of water out and two paracetamol on the bedside table. Quentin spent most of the night at his desk, angrily programming. He only returned to bed in the early hours of the morning, cautiously getting under the sheets. Jamie didn’t stir, but he didn’t roll over to grab Quentin to him like he normally did.

Quentin refused to let himself become upset over it. If Jamie wanted to be petty and not let Quentin comfort him, then so be it. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for sleep.

He was just about to drift off when he heard it—a little murmur from the man beside him. Quentin froze. Jamie _never_ talked (or even moved) in his sleep, always dead silent and perfectly still. Now, the man threw his arm over his eyes, as if hiding in shame.

“Jamie?” Quentin asked quietly.

Jamie only murmured again, something that sounded similar to, _“I’m sorry.”_

“Sweetheart?” Quentin’s brows pulled together, and he made a move to place his hand on Jamie’s back before realizing that it would probably be unappreciated.

 _“Ve...”_ Jamie muttered, eyes rolling wildly behind his lids. _“Come back...”_ Quentin bit his lip, unsure whether to wake the him up or not. The man was restless. 

_“Vesper,”_ Jamie finished, and Quentin’s blood ran cold. There was such despair and longing in his voice, Quentin knew that whoever this _Vesper_ was, she wasn’t simply a friend from work.

In his shock, Quentin’s hand fell from the air, plopping onto Jamie’s chest with a slap. The man instantly jackhammered in bed, one hand flying up to catch Quentin’s wrist in a painful grip. An involuntary whimper escaped his lips.

Jamie squinted in the dark, trying to catch his bearings. Quentin pulled at his wrist gently, wincing, and Jamie immediately released it. 

“Quentin?” he asked, voice gruff.

Quentin cradled his hand to his chest, unable to work up the nerve to speak.

Jamie’s tone was annoyed, “What do you need?”

“What?” Quentin asked quietly.

“Why did you wake me?” he snapped.

“Who’s Vesper?” Quentin shot back, and immediately regretted it when Jamie froze.

Jamie was deadly silent for a moment, and when he spoke it was with such conviction that Quentin flinched at the malice behind it. “She is _none_ of your business. Are we clear?”

“But why d—”

“Enough!” Jamie snarled, and Quentin instantly quieted. He quickly rolled over to hide the wetness in his eyes, clutching the blanket to his chest. He could hear Jamie rolling out of bed behind him, and his angry footsteps out of the bedroom.

Quentin wanted to call out, to apologise and beg Jamie to come back to bed, but his mouth wouldn’t work. A few seconds later, the front door to the flat slammed. 

A sob tore its way through Quentin’s throat.

It wasn’t until two days later that Jamie finally returned to his own flat. He didn’t say where he was for that time, and Quentin didn’t ask, too afraid of beginning another conflict.

Jamie simply held his arms out in invitation, and Quentin fell right into them. 

(And Quentin didn't need to know that it was M who forced Bond to come back, who told him to 'fix this mess before it gets out of hand'.)

* * *

_Present day._

M rapped her knuckles on Moneypenny’s doorframe, eyeing Eve’s arms around Bond and her wet eyes.

“Do I want to know?” she asked.

Bond quickly shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

She gave pause for just a moment longer, before nodding her head and deciding to drop it. “You, with me,” she told Bond. “I have an assignment for you.” Bond immediately stood to follow her, shrugging Eve off. 

M was already out the door, not even checking if Bond was following her. She called back, “And Eve, darling, wipe the mascara from your face. It doesn’t become you.”

* * *

_One year, eleven months ago._

"Do you ever think, with your skills, you could work somewhere bigger? Make a difference?" Jamie asked one late morning. The pair were under the covers in bed, Jamie's long arms wrapped around Quentin's waist. 

Quentin stiffened slightly in his arms. Worried, Bond ran a hand comfortingly up and down his sides. Quentin relaxed slightly, nearly sagging into his arms. He explained, "My eldest brother is in politics. He has always wanted me to work for him—he has this idea that our family will rule the world entirely from the background. He often tries to persuade me to work for him." 

Bond thought that this must be the “connection with a certain member in politics” M was mentioning. He wondered how powerful Quentin’s older brother must be.

"And you don't want to?" 

"The bastard lives for power, constantly trying to get us under his thumb. I can't let him have that power over me." Q’s voice was strong with such conviction; Bond could see why MI6 would have trouble persuading the boffin to join. Still, that same conviction led to Bond ending up here, and he had to once again swallow down the anger he felt.

"Am I ever going to meet your family?" He kept his voice light, even.

Quentin snorted, his mind conjuring up the mental image of Mycroft, Sherlock, and _Jamie_ in the same room. He thought the world might explode from that much ego so close together. "Not if I can help it," he answered. 

Bond seemed bemused, but was eternally thanking his lucky stars that he didn't have to play nice to the target's family. He was sure he’d end up killing someone.

“They can’t be that bad,” he reasoned, dubious.

“I’m considered the normal one in my family.”

Bond blinked. “Jesus.” 

“Exactly.”

There was an odd silence, while Bond struggled to think of something a boyfriend would say. He finally muttered, “Tell me about them.”

A smile flirted on Q’s lips. “They’re insane, for one.”

“Ah, runs in the family, does it?” Bond joked, and Quentin pressed his cold feet against Bond’s shins in retaliation.

“I’m the youngest, actually,” Quentin continued. “Youngest of three. My oldest brother, M—”

Bond’s phone rang. He immediately turned to fish it off the nightstand, pressing it to his ear. “Bourne,” he answered.

Tanner’s voice was on the other end, sounding like a joyous colleague just in case Quentin was listening. “Jamie, mate, can you please come in? Alex is feeling awful and wants to go home.”

Translation: Alec’s mission went wrong, and we can’t extract him.

Bond was up before he knew what he was doing, dressing quickly and making his way to the door without even saying goodbye.

* * *

_Present day._

Quentin was waiting for Jamie at the table, nearly bouncing with excitement. Jamie usually got home around six thirty, and Quentin had timed dinner perfectly; having it ready at the exact moment Jamie was meant to walk through the front door.

Only, Jamie didn’t walk through the front door. Quentin waited, sitting with an untouched plate before him. The clock seemed horribly loud. Quentin mused, entertaining himself with his own thoughts as he waited for his boyfriend. He might take the clock apart tonight, try to make it quieter. He would only have to…

Another half an hour passed before the sound of keys jingling in the lock could be heard. Jamie walked in, still dressed sharp from work, and nearly passed Quentin altogether on his way to the bedroom.

He stopped when Quentin reached a hand up to grab the blond’s wrist, looking down with a brow raised.

“Hi, honey,” Quentin smiled. He stood, kissing his boyfriend hello.

Jamie glanced down at the table. “What’s this?”

“I made your favourite,” Quentin smiled sheepishly.

“Oh,” Jamie blinked. He reached down and picked a piece of meat up from Quentin’s plate with his fingers, popping it into his mouth. “It’s cold.”

Quentin deflated. “I can put it in the microwave,” he suggested halfheartedly.

“You know I don’t like food reheated.”

Quentin lowered himself back into his chair. 

“Anyway, I have to go,“ Jamie continued.

“Go? Go where?”

“Another trip.”

Quentin wrinkled his nose. “Another? But you just had one a few weeks ago.”

Jamie’s voice was impatient. “You know I don’t make the rules.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. A few days, maybe. A week?” Jamie seemed as if he was ready to shuffle away.

“Oh.” Quentin’s brows pulled together. “So you don’t think you’ll be back in time for our anniversary.”

Bond swore internally. He had completely forgotten about that. Quentin had taken it upon himself to celebrate each year the day they had ‘met’ in the café, usually taking Bond out to dinner and then brewing tea at home for them to share. It was all horribly sentimental.

He forced his voice to sound disappointed. “I suppose won’t be.”

“Oh,” Quentin muttered. Bond glanced over to see the boy frowning, staring at the floor.

He sighed. M was going to have his hide for letting this happen. Forcing himself to swallow the bile, Bond turned around and plastered on an apologetic smile. “I know, sweetheart.” He lifted a hand to brush his palm over the younger man’s cheek. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back, yes?”

Quentin nodded, smiling up a watery smile at his boyfriend. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

_Two years, four months ago._

M’s lips were pursed as Tanner slid the small item under the x-ray. The image was being projected onto one of the large screens in Q-Branch, and Bond and M looked on with apprehension.

“There,” Tanner said, nodding toward a nearly invisible spec on the screen. 

Bond sighed, but no one was really surprised. Of course Quentin had put a tracking device on his mobile, it was only to be expected.

M levelled Bond with a stare. “We’ll just have to be more careful. This building is listed as a sales firm, so your cover hasn’t been blown. Yet. Proceed with extreme caution. Tell Quentin as much of the truth as possible when it comes to where you go for your so-called business trips.” 

“Just be sure to leave your mobile in the hotel,” Tanner added. 

Bond nodded, “Will do.”

“And, since we know that he’s become suspicious, set your password to something easily guessable.” M said. Both Tanner and Bond gave her a curious look. “Setting it as anything else will make it look as if you have something to hide. All information you receive from here on will be encrypted.”

“Do you think a simple encryption will stop him? If he really were to get curious?”

“I’ll have it encrypted by R. She’s our best coder.”

* * *

_Present day._

The mission was in Paris, of all places. Bond sighed as he exited the station. He had brushed up on his French on the ride, and fluently chatted up the receptionist as he checked into his hotel room. He saw her jot down his room number on a sticky note, and winked. She had bright red hair and a tiny waist, and Bond toyed with the idea of inviting her to his room when she got off… He waved the thought away. It would have to wait until his assignment was over, then he could play all he wanted.

In his room, Bond unpacked enough to look as if he’d settled in. Tanner’s voice buzzed in his ear, “Bond. Do you read me?”

“Clear and annoying, as always,” Bond responded cheerfully.

Tanner ignored the jab. “We’ve had an ally of ours plant your equipment under your bed. I’m sending the encrypted address to your mobile.”

Bond ran his hand along the underside of the bed, smiling when he felt the cool brush of steel against his fingertips. On cue, his mobile buzzed in his pocket. “Well done, you. How long did it take to work the timing of that out?” 

“Hilarious,” Tanner sneered. “Arrive at the address at 1930 tonight.” Bond glanced at the address given for the Casino.

“We estimate only four men, all armed,” continued Tanner. “They should be guarding a woman. You’ll spot them right away,”

Bond nodded. “Shouldn’t take too long, then.”

“Not if you do it correctly.”

“My, have you a mouth on you today. After they’re taken care of?”

“You know the drill. The house can be burned. Make sure there aren’t any bones or teeth able to be used to identify them.”

“Not a problem.” Really, why couldn’t a minor agent have been sent on this? It was too easy. Bond couldn’t complain too much, however. At least he got to shoot people.

There was a pause from the other end, and Bond straightened, suspicious. “What is it?”

“007,” Tanner got out, voice nervous. “Are you going to want your normal… _‘two days reprieve’_?”

This was new. Normally it was always just assumed Bond would take two days to himself, laying low wherever the assignment was. It started out as Bond just not coming back to London when M told him to, and progressed to M simply giving the two days without asking. Anything to get a longer break from the lie he lived.

M must have remembered the date then, if Bond was being asked whether he still wanted the time or not.

“Of course I bloody want it. Sod the anniversary, there’s a leggy redhead downstairs that I can convince to spend the night with me. Don’t bother me again.”

With that, he ripped the piece out of his ear and tossed it away.

* * *

_One year, three months ago._

"Do you..." Quentin started, and then stopped abruptly. His feet were resting in his boyfriend's lap, both sitting on the couch with a movie humming in the background. 

Jamie turned his head, giving the boy an inquisitive look. 

Quentin huffed out a breath, heart drumming nervously. Jamie rubbed his feet slightly, soothing his nerves. He continued, “The other day, I saw a couple walking down the street. They had the most adorable little girl, and she smiled at me, and I just thought—”

“You just thought...” Jamie prompted. 

“It just made me think,” Quentin’s lips were red with all the biting he was doing. Jamie reached over to pull his bottom lip out from underneath his teeth. “Do you ever want kids?” he blurted, eyes widening when his brain caught up to his mouth.

Jamie froze, hand still hovering near Quentin’s face. Quentin immediately tried to backtrack, mind screaming warnings of, _‘Abort! Too soon! Abort!’_

He stammered, “Of course, not now. Not ever, even, if you don’t want them. Obviously you don’t have to. I just—”

Jamie smiled at Quentin then, reaching his hand back to brush over his face. “Kids,” he murmured.

Quentin gave him a small smile. “Kids,” he agreed.

“I’ve thought about it. And… I’ve decided that, maybe someday, I’d certainly be open to that.“

“Yeah?” There was a hopeful look in his eyes. 

Bond smiled, feeling the hot bile pool in his stomach. God, how far would he have to go for a target? He filed away the thought of telling M about this later; maybe she would give him a raise.

“Of course, darling.”

* * *

_Present day._

Quentin packed his suitcase, smiling slightly to himself. _Paris,_ the tracker he had placed in Jamie’s phone reported. It had been a while since Quentin had been to Paris—and the last time he was there, Sherlock had got them arrested (which was frighteningly easy to delete from their records, but Quentin was still angry on principle).

But Quentin would happily go to Paris again if it meant he could see Jamie for their anniversary. The man had seemed upset that he couldn’t stay home with Quentin, and it was only an hour after he left that Quentin thought of the perfect solution: he should simply go with.

He immediately bought a ticket for the next train, and packed his bag. Quentin wouldn’t mind that Jamie would most likely be in a meeting all day, he could entertain himself in the hotel room with a laptop until the man returned. 

The thought put a wider smile on his face; how surprised Jamie would look when he came back to his hotel room to find Quentin waiting for him. They could celebrate their anniversary in the city of love.

Quentin glanced at the clock while shrugging into his parka. 

He had a train to catch.

* * *

Night finally fell, and Bond dressed in his charcoal suit. 

_Four-in-hand or Pratt?_ he thought, standing in front of the mirror. He had long since grown out of his Windsor phase; he grimaced when he thought of it. Bond mistrusted anyone who tied his tie with a Windsor knot. It showed too much vanity, and was often the mark of a cad.

Four-in-hand it was, then. The tie matched impeccably with his suit and shoes; even his socks were shaded to match. He gave himself a smirk in the mirror, mind wandering to the redhead downstairs with her three inch heels. He’d strive to finish this mission all the more quickly, then, just for her.

His mobile buzzed, and he glanced at it to see a message from Tanner. _New information suggests that Patrice [ see file] might be one of the men at the Casino. Proceed with caution._

Bond nearly snorted. Caution. Right. When wasn’t he cautious?

* * *

Quentin stepped off the train, pulling on the sleeves of his cardigan nervously. His satchel was securely slung over his shoulder, his laptop a comforting weight inside.

Night was just falling, and the tracker had said that Jamie had arrived at his hotel only a few hours ago. Quentin pulled up the address on his phone and rattled it off to the cab driver in French.

Quentin smiled faintly, remembering what it was like to learn French. Mycroft had already learned it, not a hint of an accent when he spoke. Sherlock had refused for the longest time, simply because it was something Mycroft had done. But Quentin had wanted to learn, and convinced Sherlock to take it with him (because what if one of his future clients spoke only French, and Sherlock missed out on a great case because of it?). Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at Quentin’s obvious attempt at manipulation, but huffed and suffered through the week that it took them to learn the language.

The cab driver announced they had arrived, and Quentin thanked and paid the man.

He then strode into the building, trying to avoid looking as if he had never been there before. He confidently made his way to the elevator, only getting a suspicious look from a woman with red hair behind the desk. 

Upstairs, he frowned at the lock on the door. What happened to electronic locks in hotels now? This door was locked with a simple key, and with the amount of foot-traffic in the hallway, there would be no picking the lock.

He noticed a maid making her way past him, and sighed heavily to catch her attention. She frowned at him, “Is there something I can help you with, sweetie?”

“I—” he cut himself off, bringing out his best acting skills to draw tears to his eyes. The maid’s face instantly crumpled in sympathy. “I just wanted to surprise my husband—it’s our anniversary tomorrow—but I realised I don’t have a _key._ ” Quentin forced his voice to break on the last word, a short-lived coil of guilt spawning inside of him for twisting the truth.

“Honey, here, let me,” she bustled past him, using her master key to open the door. The woman was a closet romantic, and Quentin knew she would let her emotions rather than her rationality dictate her actions if he played his cards right. “You have a good anniversary,” she smiled at him, and he thanked her profusely. She ruffled a hand through his hair as she walked away, and Quentin waiting until she was completely out of sight before grimacing and fixing it. God, how he hated people.

Quentin stood outside the door for a moment, breathing in. He hoped Jamie would be pleased to see him.

He let out the breath, and before he lost his nerve he threw open the door, calling out, “Surprise!”

Quentin stood on the doorway, waiting for his boyfriend to come around the corner, but there was no responding call.

Frowning, he made his way inside. The hotel room was empty, save for the suitcase lying on the bed.

“Jamie?” he called, but of course there was no answer.

Quentin glanced at the time, seeing it was ten past eight. Jamie should have been out of whatever meeting or seminar he had by now, right?

He fished his mobile out of his pocket, dialling. From the dresser sounded a loud buzzing. Quentin made his way over to it, seeing Jamie’s mobile left on the nightstand. The picture flashing on the screen was one from a few months ago, with Jamie’s arm slung over Quentin’s shoulders. They were standing in their kitchen, Quentin’s face flushed with embarrassment while a pan was on fire in the background. Jamie couldn’t resist snapping a picture.

Smiling wistfully, Quentin hung up the call. Maybe Jamie had got a call, telling him the meeting would be a long one. _But why would his phone still be here?_

Checking over his shoulder, as if Jamie would walk in any moment and catch him, Quentin scooped up the phone. It unlocked easily in his hands—how many times had he told Jamie that 1234 was _not_ an acceptable code—and Quentin was looking at Jamie’s home screen. 

He tapped the recent calls, frowning when he saw the last one was from him. A week ago. Why would a businessman such as him not have more calls?

He tried the text messages instead. The messages were all from a contact simply named Bill.

 _A colleague?_ Quentin didn’t know who Bill was; Jamie didn’t like to talk about his work much, and had certainly never mentioned anyone named Bill.

Feeling horribly intrusive, Quentin clicked on their messages guiltily. He immediately frowned, recognizing the encryption easily. It was a simple enough algorithm, one that he had made a decoder for when he was eleven. He connected the mobile to his laptop, and had the real messages within moments.

Most of them were gibberish, speaking in code and half sentences. But the last text was only a simple address, marked read this afternoon.

Quentin straightened his tie, glancing at himself in the mirror.

Well. Maybe it was time to pay his boyfriend a visit.

* * *

Quentin paid the cabbie, glancing at the casino dubiously. _This_ is where Jamie was?

The hopeful voice in his head chirped, _‘Perhaps he wanted to relax after a meeting.’_

Quentin squashed the feeling down. Something wasn’t right here. If Jamie had wanted to go to an innocent casino with a friend, the message wouldn’t have been encrypted. Quentin had ignored Jamie’s white lies for too long.

A painful knot formed in his stomach when he considered the thought of his boyfriend of nearly three years cheating on him. Had Quentin become too boring? Maybe he was too needy.

Quentin forced himself to enter, ignoring how hopelessly underdressed he was. His eyes flickered around, taking in the layout of the building. He could admit his skills of observation and deduction weren’t as finely tuned as Mycroft or Sherlock’s—but it evened itself out; Mycroft was hopelessly lost with technology, and Sherlock just didn’t care to learn.

So, while he might not be able to tell a person’s occupation by their tie, he was still a genius. And he could immediately tell that the casino was only a front; that a normal casino would not need nearly this many armed guards, nor would the women (and some of the men) look so frightened. 

This was a smuggling ring.

Jamie, what were you doing _here?_

* * *

It wasn’t difficult for Quentin to sneak back past the first few guards and into a back section of the casino where all of the offices were. 

It wasn’t difficult—but it should have been. Someone had already taken out most of the guards (and Quentin found out where they had all been placed when he accidentally opened a supply closet. He would have nightmares for weeks).

At the end of the hall was the CEO’s office, door ajar. Everything was eerily quiet. Stepping closer, Quentin noticed a pair of legs lying on the ground in the office, just barely visible through the crack. His breath caught in his throat.

Still, no sound came from the office. Quentin crept forward, eventually getting close enough to peer inside. A body was slumped in the chair behind the desk, four more scattered around the room. 

Quentin's breathing turned shallow as he saw the spray patterns on the wall, the blood leaking out of bullet wounds. 

They hadn't been dead for too long; rigor hadn't yet set in.

Quentin took a step forward, forgetting the man lying directly in front of him and tripping over his legs. He sucked in a breath as the floor rushed up to meet him, only barely catching himself before kissing the ground. From this vantage point, he could see another body lying behind the desk, blood staining the man's tie—wait. 

Quentin knew that tie. He had tied around another man's neck nearly every morning for the past two years. 

"Jamie?" Quentin intoned softly, hesitantly crawling toward the still figure. He caught sight of blond hair, and let out a panicked whimper. "Jamie?!"

He kneeled next to his partner, noting the shallow breathing and blood staining his abdomen. His hands fluttered uselessly, completely unsure of what to do, when he noticed a something sticking out of Jamie's ear. He pulled the small device out, raising it to his bespectacled eyes. It was a nude coloured earpiece, still humming faintly. 

In a daze, Quentin held the piece of tech to his ear, hearing a woman's worried voice. "Bond? Bond, are you there?" 

When she didn't get an answer, the woman snapped, "007, report!"

The earpiece slipped from Quentin's fingers, his entire body going numb. 

007\. _007._

Quentin was not an idiot. He knew of the Double-O section of MI6, knew from using Mycroft's access level to view MI6 files. But there had never been any trace of Jamie in their system, no fingerprints nor DNA. 

Head foggy with realization, he crushed the earpiece under his shoe. 

Jamie... Jamie was a spy. He was a Double-O. He worked for MI6. He worked for Mycroft. 

Tears stung his eyes. 

All of the lies, all of the avoided questions and half-truths. They all flooded back into Quentin's mind, clogging up his throat. 

A low groan tore him out of his revelation, and Quentin looked down to see the blond's eyes fluttering. 

"Jamie?" Quentin asked automatically, and then cursed himself.

Jamie probably wasn't even his real name. 

The man in question groaned, hand feebly attempting to lift and touch his wound. Quentin caught his wrist, tsking.

"Don't you dare." Moving quickly, Quentin loosened the man’s tie, rolling it and shoving the fabric against the injury. Jamie—or _Bond,_ Quentin supposed he should start calling him now—hissed at the pain. 

Quentin glanced around, remembering where they were. He needed to get them out of here.

J—Bond became just lucid enough for Quentin to maneuver him to his feet. The agent was barely paying attention, letting Quentin guide his arm over his shoulder for support. Quentin corralled him through the hallways, taking a back exit (where Quentin found another body. It was strange to think that the man he was holding had been responsible for their deaths).

Quentin reached over to button Bond’s suit, hoping to cover the majority of the blood stain before anyone could question them.

He hailed a cab, telling the driver that his friend had just had a little too much to drink. Mind racing, he gave the man the address to the hotel. He couldn’t take Bond to the hospital; they would ask too many questions. If Bond really did work for MI6, they would have personnel swamping the hospital within minutes of arrival. He wanted to avoid MI6 for as long as he could. He was already taking a risk bringing Bond back to the hotel. The cabbie warned that if he puked in his cab, they would be walking the rest of the way.

In the back of the car, Quentin kept his hand pressed firmly against the tie. Bond’s head rolled around, and Quentin tried to mentally calculate the volume of blood he knew Bond had lost against how much was supposed to be in the body.

He shoved a few bills in the cabbie’s face, nearly dragging Bond out of the car. The receptionist stood to help, but the scowl Quentin gave her made her lower back down into her chair.

Numbly, as he reached out to press the button on the lift, he realised his hands were soaked in blood. Bond’s blood. Shit.

They stumbled into Bond’s room, the door having been left unlocked. On the floor and bed littered rose petals, and a bottle of champagne was being chilled in a bucket of ice.

Quentin took the decor in with a start, registering the fact that the maid must have orchestrated this for them.

Pity it would never be used.

Bond collapsed then, and Quentin tried to guide the fall onto the bed. The puff of rose petals that flew into the air at the movement would have been comical if it wasn’t so fucking sad.

The brunet slid his mobile out of his pocket (silently apologizing to his tech for the blood he was about to stain her with), and dialled up the first person that came to mind.

“’lo?” a groggy voice answered.

“Doctor Watson,” Quentin started, voice urgent.

“Wh—Quentin?”

“Yes, I need your help.”

That seemed to to wake the man up. “What is it?”

“Adult male, gunshot wound to the abdomen, blood loss 28.5% and rising. What do I do?”

“Call an ambulance.”

Quentin could feel his eye twitch. “Not an option.”

There was a small pause, before Watson continued, taking it all in stride. “Are you applying pressure to the wound?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Let that be your primary concern. If he continues to lose blood, he’ll go into shock.”

“I think he’s already there,” Quentin admitted.

“Shit. Okay. I need you to describe to me the location of the entry. Check for an exit wound. Tell me the trajectory if you can.”

And the next hour or so went on like that, the pair talking back and forth. Quentin hands shook the entire time, but Watson’s voice was calm and steady; an anchor for Quentin to rely on. (In the end, they did end up using the champagne, even if it was only as a way to sterilise the wound.)

Bond never fully woke up, fluctuating between fully asleep and groaning at the pain. Finally, after Watson gave him the all clear, Quentin allowed himself to collapse. The chair gave a creak under the abuse, but held firm as sobs wracked the younger man’s small form. 

A lie. That’s all it had been, then. Bond’s entire life—a lie.

Quentin’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe Bond had lied to protect him. A man with a dangerous job like that, he wouldn’t want any harm to come to his partner because of him. 

That’s what this was, right? Bond still loved him, things would just be a little rocky for a while. They would eventually move past it, learn to laugh about it when they looked back on it years from now.

His eyes danced over Bond’s features, soft and slack with exhaustion. Quentin knew the real man underneath the suit, knew that he preferred his clothes on the left side of the wardrobe, knew that he liked to make homemade ice cream, knew that he would draw a bath for Quentin after the boy had been sitting at his desk for too long, gently rubbing out the brunet’s shoulders and back.

Quentin needed to get out of there. He needed to think.

He grabbed Bond’s mobile from the dresser and sent a message to Bill—who Quentin assumed was Bond’s contact at MI6. _‘The hotel. Room 216. Require immediate medical attention.’_

Then, looking back once more at the sleeping form of his boyfriend, Quentin slipped out of the room, silent as a ghost.

* * *

Bond came to slowly, eyelids too heavy to lift for a few minutes. He knew he was in a hospital bed right away, instantly recognizing the sterile smell and lumpy bed.

He grimaced at the pull of the needle in his vein, reaching his other hand up to yank it out.

“Oh, no you don’t,” a voice said, and there was a small hand grasping his wrist, tugging it away from harming himself. 

He forced his eyes to open, smirking at the occupant of the chair next to him. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of having you next to my sick bed, Ms. Moneypenny?”

Eve glared at him, completely unimpressed. “Don’t you dare try to sweet talk me, James. You nearly frightened me to death. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Right now, I’m thinking of seven different ways to incapacitate you and make my escape from this place.”

She gave his a tight smile. “I’ll happily have you shot again if you try such a thing. You’re stuck in here for another day, at least.”

“Again?” Bond glanced down, just now noticing the large bandage wrapped around his middle.

There was a pause. “How much do you remember?” Eve was eyeing him warily. 

Bond thought back. He remembered arriving at the casino, remembered having a few more drinks than was probably wise—he had still been angry with Tanner, the prat.

"Mission went tits up," he finally said. "They were expecting me—and there were quite a few more than Tanner told me." He sighed. "I take it you extracted me in time."

Eve was silent for a few seconds, looking at him in disbelief. "James, you were found back in your hotel room."

He blinked. "Was I? I suppose I made my way back." 

"And then proceeded to clean the wound and bandage yourself."

Bond froze, wondering what the hell Eve was going on about. “I don’t quite remember doing _that,_ ” he admitted.

“Are you certain you were alone?” Eve pressed. “There were signs of another person around the room.”

“Signs?”

She hesitated. “Rose petals. Scattered about the floor and bed.”

“I don’t know who could have done that.” The redhead from the lobby came to mind, but he dismissed her immediately. “Can’t you check the cameras?”

“The casino doesn’t have any—they didn’t want their nefarious activities caught on tape— and the ones at the hotel apparently weren’t recording.”

“Sorry?”

“They weren’t recording. At least, there weren’t any tapes from about two o’clock on. Something about running out of storage.”

\--

To distract himself, Quentin had spent the entire train home using his laptop to erase all evidence of him ever having left London. 

He almost wished it were true.

* * *

Quentin sat at the kitchen table, once again waiting for his boyfriend to come home. It was a mockery of just a few days ago, when everything was still perfect.

He sat, staring off into space, for what felt like hours. His world narrowed, repeating in his head every conversation between to two, every touch, every lie.

How could he have not seen it sooner? Sherlock would have noticed it right away, Mycroft as well. 

He supposed he had no one but himself to blame. He knew he should have done a more thorough check on _Jamie Bourne,_ but he didn’t want to believe that a man so nice could have possibly been lying. Not when he had been so kind, so sweet.

Not when he had been the only man to pay Quentin the first bit of attention.

He grimaced at his own naivety. 

Yet still he stayed. He needed to hear the words from Bond’s own mouth.

A key slid into the lock, and Quentin idly wondered what lie 'Jamie' would tell about the bullet wound on his stomach.

The front door creaked open, Bond’s footsteps carrying him to the kitchen. He came up to Quentin from behind, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s waist. “I’m home early,” he breathed into Quentin’s neck, probably expecting the younger man to be excited. “Happy anniversary.”

Oh, Quenin mused. Today was their anniversary. The anniversary of their first meeting—which he realised now was no doubt a set up.

Bond kissed Quentin’s cheek, finally noticing that the man was completely still. “Quentin, baby?”

Quentin flinched at the petname.

“What’s wrong.” Strong hands that Quentin once trusted with his life rose to rest on the younger boy’s shoulders, beginning to massage the muscle there.

“You tell me, _James.”_

The hands froze.

Quentin kept his eyes forward, though he could feel the lethal curiosity radiating from the agent behind him.

“Sorry?”

“James.” Quentin shrugged off the man’s hands, rising to face the man. “James Bond. That _is_ your name, correct?”

Quentin could tell he was walking a dangerous path; Double-O agents didn’t like being caught off guard, and here Quentin was nearly taunting him with the information.

“I don’t know—”

“Stop lying!” Quentin burst out. “Just stop with all the lies.” Slightly deflated, he sighed, “I am so tired of being lied to.”

Quentin practically was able to feel Bond’s fingers twitch, was able to see them inch toward his concealed holster.

Acting first, Quentin spun and jammed the small taser he had hidden in his pocket into Bond’s chest, catching the man by surprise. It was with a sick satisfaction that Quentin watched Bond convulse, falling to the floor. 

“Quen—” he gasped. Quentin grasped both of the man’s wrists, and handcuffed him to the solid stretcher of the table (thank you, Sherlock, for passing them on from Lestrade). He fished out the man’s gun—a Walther, he noted absently—and tucked it into his own waistband.

“Goodbye, James,” he said. Ignoring the man’s swears and worn out struggles, Quentin turned on his heel and strode out the door.

He only made it a block away before the tears became too thick for him to see.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat behind his desk at the Diogenes Club, reviewing the files from Greywater, when his mobile buzzed.

He glanced once at the screen, and then motioned for the steward to close the door so he could have privacy.

He answered, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

There was only silence on the other end of the line. Then, his younger brother spoke. “Did you know?”

Mycroft would never admit to doing something so plebeian as rolling his eyes. “Brother mine, despite what you think, I am not omniscient. You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”

“ _Please,_ My,” Quentin’s voice broke, and Mycroft nearly dropped the phone in surprise. “Did you know?”

Mycroft was immediately serious, leaning forward in his seat. “Where are you?”

Quentin only let out a sob.

Mycroft quickly pulled up the tracking programme on his computer. “I have a car near you. Just stay where you are. It will be there shortly.”

(And if a very important person was randomly shoved out of a nearby unmarked vehicle and onto the pavement, they were advised to keep it to themselves.)

Mycroft pulled up the CCTV feed, swivelling around the cameras to point at his baby brother. His heart nearly clenched at the sight, though his face didn’t show it. Quentin stood on the pavement, arms wrapped around his slim body, looking absolutely wrecked.

As the black car entered the edge of the screen, a man came running toward Quentin. His blond hair was a mess, and suit rumpled. He called out Quentin’s name.

The boy turned at the sound, demeanour becoming more upset. He rushed to meet the black car, sliding in just at the man caught up to them.

From the microphone in the car, Mycroft could hear Quentin bite out, “Drive.” 

The car sped away, leaving the man in the dust.

* * *

The drive took only eight and a half minutes, and Quentin spent the entire time trying to stop his tears. Mycroft would laugh it his show of emotion.

The car finally pulled up in front of the Diogenes Club, and he was led by the driver into Mycroft’s office in the very back.

Opting not to knock, Quentin passed through the large double doors—only to nearly walk right into Mycroft himself.

He opened his mouth to tell his brother that the car ride was appreciated, but all that came out was a small cry.

Surprising the both of them, Mycroft immediately lifted his arms to wrap them around the younger boy, rubbing his hands up and down soothingly.

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, sniffling, and tentatively hugged his brother back. His shoulders began to shake with suppressed cries.

“There now,” Mycroft said gently. He slipped into French, remembering how he would always comfort the boy after his nightmares when he was a small child. “I have you.”

They stood like that for a few minutes, in the awkward embrace. Quentin finally settled, cries dimming down into only shudders.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked. He _really_ did not like not knowing. “Who do I need to make disappear?”

Quentin shook his head, sniffling. “It’s not real.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “ _He’s_ not real.”

* * *

It only took thirty minutes and one angry phone call for one of Mycroft’s minions to scurry through the door, manilla folder in hand.

Mycroft opened the file and glanced at the contents, eyes tightening. He held it out to Quentin.

Quentin was almost afraid to read it.

Hands trembling, the bruet reached out and took the file from his older brother. Before he could open it, Mycroft stood, telling him that there was business elsewhere that needed to be attended to. It was a poor excuse to give the boy some privacy, but Quentin took it gratefully.

Fingers numb, Quentin opened the file.

* * *

_Four days later._

Bond had spent the better part of the last four days depleting his supply of scotch. Once he ran out of that, he moved onto the vodka. His friend vodka never let him down.

He didn’t bother going into MI6—they would eventually find out that he had blown his cover; there was no need to rush that. M would be furious. When word got out, Eve would probably be angry with him as well. She didn’t like being loft out of the loop.

He had not shaved since the morning of the mission, hadn’t even changed his clothes from the ones Medical gave him. 

It wasn’t until his stomach clenched around nothing, begging him for food, that James finally decided to get up and scavenge for something to eat.

The fridge was still stocked, leftovers from Monday night wrapped on the top shelf. Bond grimaced. He hated reheated food.

He thought of the small Thai place just around the corner. Maybe he could make a quick stop.

Glancing at his reflection and declaring himself passable, he grabbed his wallet and started downstairs.

The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain in his neck, a stinging sensation flooding under his skin—and then, nothing.

* * *

John stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle. He poured the water methodically, filling the two cups with ease. “How do you take it?” he called.

A lump on the sofa answered, voice hoarse, “Like Sherlock does.”

Nodding, John fished out the milk and sugar, adding Sherlock’s normal ‘just the right amount’ of both. 

He picked up the two mugs and tentatively walked up to the lump. “Quentin,” he ventured. “Tea’s ready.”

The lump didn’t move for a moment, before finally a head with a dark mop of hair poked out, eyeing the mug warily. He took it with shaking hands, sipping with apprehension.

“Well?” John prompted when the boy didn’t speak. 

“I can see why he keeps you around,” he said with a small smile.

John laughed, eyes crinkling, and for a moment Quentin envied his brother and his success at finding someone who actually cared for him. Someone loyal and kind. Someone whose entire life wasn’t a farce.

Quentin grimaced at his own train of thought. It had been four days since he had ran from Bond, and three since Mycroft had dropped him off on Sherlock’s doorstep. John had immediately taken Quentin in, doting on him while he mended his heart. Sherlock was never good with emotions—and neither was Mycroft, not like Quentin was—so it wasn’t a big surprise that after one large hug, the detective had been avoiding his younger brother.

Quentin suddenly frowned, looking around the flat. Where was his berk of an older brother?

* * *

Bond awoke slowly, head pounding something awful. He had a dry mouth, and his stomach was heaving around nothing. Hangover?

He tried to move, only to realise with a start that his wrists were restrained behind his back, and his ankles fastened to the legs of a chair.

Fuck. Not a hangover, then.

Whoever had taken him was well prepared—his thumbs had been taped to his palms so he couldn’t dislocate them, and the chair had been securely bolted to the floor.

Still, Bond’s eyes flickered around the empty warehouse, looking for any possible means of escape.

The sound of a door opening behind him echoed throughout the large room, and Bond refused to give any indication that he was worried. A tall man with thinning hair strode in front of him, swinging his umbrella back and forth. He smirked at Bond, cocking his head to the side as if Bond was a specimen he was examining. 

The man finally spoke. “As a rule, Mr. Bond, I dislike getting my hands dirty.” His smirk finally transformed into a devious smile, nearly baring his teeth at the blond. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

Bond arranged his features to appear completely unworried. “Will you now? I suppose that’s kind of you. And just who might you be?”

“That, I’m afraid, is above your pay grade.”

The man wheeled a metal table into view, picking up a small knife. Just behind the knives was a soldering iron and other various devices all for the same purpose.

The man leaned toward Bond, raising his hand. Before Bond could spit out something and stall, the doors behind him slammed open.

Angry footsteps approached, and his captor seemed more amused than anything else.

“Starting without me, are you?” a deep voice droned, shrugging off his long coat and laying it on the edge of the table. He quickly rolled up his sleeves, and added his scarf to his coat.

The taller man gave a condoning smile to the newcomer. “I was just waiting for you.”

The curly haired man snorted. “I’m sure you were.” He reached over to grasp the iron, and Bond held back a wince.

He asked, “Do I at least get the pleasure of knowing why I’m about to be tortured?”

Quick as lightening, the lanky one gripped Bond’s short hair and yanked his head back. He hissed out, “Because you hurt him.” He reached back to the table for a strip of cloth, which Bond could only assume was a gag.

The other man stopped him. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather go without. It’s a rather secluded location.”

“If you insist.”

“Shall you make the first cut, or should I?” the man in the three-piece suit asked. Who dressed that nice to a torture session?

“Well, seeing as he was one of _yours_ that got out of hand, perhaps you should do the honours.”

“Do not blame me for this,” the man said, but still took his knife and held it to the hollow of Bond’s throat. “What should we start with, hm? A finger? An eye?”

A quiet voice spoke, barely audible over Bond’s loud breathing. “Put it down, Myc.” 

Everyone froze. Bond recovered first, snapping his head around in an attempt to see Quentin. 

“Quentin,“ The man with dark hair sniffed, looking put off. “You were supposed to stay with John.”

Quentin walked toward them, hands in his pockets. His glasses were smudged, hair a mess. He had dark bruises under his eyes, and looked positively too thin than was healthy.

“Please, Sherlock, as if I couldn’t figure out where you had run off to. Besides, John sided with me after I told him what you might be doing.”

The ginger put on a look of innocence. “And what might we be doing?”

The one Quentin had called _Sherlock_ finished, saying, “We were just having a nice friendly chat.”

Quentin sighed, looking as if he didn’t have it in him to argue. “Just let him go.”

Both brothers opened their mouths to protest, but Quentin cut them off my shaking his head. 

“He doesn’t deserve this.”

“He hurt you.”

Quentin shook his head. “He was doing his job.”

Both men looked extremely unhappy with the turn of events.

Quentin sighed, looking completely exhausted. “If it was with anybody else, you wouldn’t have a problem with it. In fact, you’d probably congratulate him on his ability to keep the mission running for so long.”

Mycroft’s jaw flexed, but the man stayed quiet.

“Let him go, Myc. ’Lock, shame on you for joining him. John will be very cross.” The man with curly hair scowled, dropping his head.

“Very well,” Mycroft said, and used the same knife he had been holding to cut through the rope and the tape. 

Bond stood, eyeing his old partner wearily. He couldn’t imagine why Quentin would not want to see him tortured for that he did. “Quentin, I-”

The boy held his hand up, stopping the blond in his tracks. “Don’t. Just don’t.” Both men moved to lead the boy away, creating a guard on either side. When Bond made a move to follow, Quentin peered back over his shoulder, freezing the man with his wide expressive eyes. His voice was soft, “Goodbye, James.”

The door latching behind them left a note of finality echoing through the room.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson immediately agreed to give Quentin the keys to 221C, and even though he was apprehensive about living that close to Sherlock— _really, how did John do it?_ —he agreed. It was better than living with Mycroft, and really, hell would have frozen over before that ever happened.

Mycroft’s men turned up on his doorstep no more than an hour after he had agreed to move in downstairs, carrying boxes full of his things from the old flat. Quentin found he didn’t want to know how they had known which razor and shampoo were his.

He settled in rather quickly—after Sherlock had removed a few of his hidden experiments—and found he liked the modest size of the flat. It was just large enough to hold his three computers, his bed, and a server rack.

He spent most days holed up inside. Mrs. Hudson was delighted to have another person to dote on, and Quentin often found tupperware filled with food would randomly appear in his fridge.

Over two weeks had passed, and Quentin couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all going too well. He was doing everything he could to distract himself from things that reminded him of his former partner, coding and hacking like a madman. He even wriggled his way into Mycroft’s system, which resulted in a very angry phone call.

Friday night had come, and Sherlock and John had long since left on a case. Quentin had just shovelled another mouthful of rocky road in his mouth when a knock sounded at the door. 

Quentin dried his eyes quickly with the soft cardigan he was wearing, paused The Fault in Our Stars, and made his way to the door. There stood two men, each wearing black suits perfectly tailored to conceal weapons. 

“Mr. Holmes?” the one nearest him asked. Quentin nodded silently. There was no point in denying it. He knew what they were here to do. “We’re going to need you to come with us.”

* * *

_Two months later._

James sat on the bench in the art gallery, staring ahead. Tanner had told him to report here to meet with the new Quartermaster. He hoped whoever it was could live up to the large shoes Boothroyd had left. 

His eyes focused on the painting on the wall, failing to see the appeal. Slow, measured steps caught his attention, approaching the bench. A body sat next to his, and Bond caught a flash of dark hair in the corner of his eye that made his chest ache. 

"Always makes me feel a little melancholy." James nearly started at the quiet voice. 

Quentin. 

Quentin was here and sitting next to him. 

He opened his mouth, but Quentin continued, eyes forward. "A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. The inevitability of time, don't you think?" The boy sighed. "What do you see?" 

Once again, James eyes looked at the painting. His pulse raced. "A bloody big ship. Quint-" 

"I'm your new Quartermaster," Quentin interrupted. His eyes were calm, still avoiding meeting James'. 

James frowned. "You're joking." _Why?_ Why would Quentin agree to that? 

"Well, I didn't have much of a choice, did I?" Quentin's voice was flat. "MI6 couldn't very well let me run free now that I knew the secrets of their top agent. It was this or incarceration. Mycroft is happy to have a hold on me, though he tries not to show it." 

Bond felt like a weight had been set on his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered, surprised that he meant his own words. He was sorry. Sorry they couldn’t have met any other way, sorry they would never have a chance to right what went wrong between them. He was certain under any other circumstances, the pair would have gotten along marvelously.

Quentin's eye twitched, still looking straight ahead. 

Bond started, "Quentin-" 

"It's Q," his voice was cutting. “My name is Q.” 

And they were back to square one; Bond unable to call the boy by his real name. "Q, I-" 

"Ticket to Shanghai," he cut in again, pulling an envelope out of an inside pocket. "Documentation and passport." 

"Thank you," Bond's voice was rough. 

"And this." Q handed him a case and a key, and inside Bond found a gun and a radio. "I don't think I need to explain them to you; they're fairly straight forward." 

"And if I want you to?" 

Q sighed. "The gun only responds to your grip; you won't be able to be shot with your own gun. From what I've read, it happens more often than not." 

Bond winced internally when he realised this meant Q had read all his case files. All had the dates documented; he could look at one and recall the lie Bond had spewed to Q about where he was going for the weekend. More so, Bond's… promiscuous behavior was… thoroughly documented as well. 

Q finally—finally—turned to look Bond in the eye. The coldness in the green eyes had Bond's retort frozen. 

"Are you even gay?" Q asked boldly. His hands were clenched into fists in his lap. 

“I am...” Bond chose his words carefully, voice cool as steel, "I am whatever I need to be to get the job done." He said the words matter-of-factly, not cruelly, but it did nothing to lessen the blow.

Q's breath caught. 

"Of course." Q nodded, attempting to swallow the knot in his throat. He didn't know why he expected anything else. He stood. "Good luck out there in the field. And please return the equipment in one piece."

Bond still heard his echoing footsteps minutes, hours, _days_ later, even though the boy was long gone.

__**Say you'll wait, say you won't  
** Say you love me, say you don't  
I can make my own mistakes  
Let it bend before it breaks. 

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS/WARNINGS: This fic does not result in Q and Bond together. It ends a little open-ended and bittersweet, but not happily and all fixed up in a nice bow. 
> 
>  
> 
> AND, a special shout out to the incredibly talented [Only_1_Truth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth), who took the time to review my work and give me some wonderful advice.
> 
> Lastly, *whispers* I'm on [tumblr](http://katsa-the-graceling.tumblr.com/).


End file.
